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“The colony is no place for a mixed-up kid like her. She can be had too easily—I bet she drops her pants at the first party.

And she began moving. Arms over head and hands clasped, she looked down at her breasts as she stood there, swaying in place. Her breasts moved. With just the barest motion of her upper body, she made them move in slow, undulating circles, a feat of perfect muscular control.


The drum beat faster, steady—

The circles moved faster. They seemed to rotate. White, undulating circles with dots of pink in the middle, they hypnotized the eyes of the audience.

And then her belly began to move. Backwards and forwards and around and around, as her hips ground and she thrust her pelvis back and forth. It was a combination of motions seemingly impossible, yet she was doing it. The emblem of gold which circled her navel became a living, seething sun against the dark sky of her belly. . . .


It was an exhibit in sheer animal abandon, a revved- up poetry in naked motion. As Anette watched, she believed Ted had been telling the truth about Human Action Painting.


This was it.


And then, as she kept the circles gyrating, she began to bend her torso backward.
Further and further, till just the crests of her breasts were visible from where Anette lay on the floor, in Ted’s arms. Her knees bent and the muscles of her legs flexed and stood out like thick black ropes. And an animal groan was escaping her lips.


“Eeeeeeeeeyyyaaaaaahhhhhh! ”


It was a jungle sound, a plaintive urgent cry of things primordial, the mating sound of the first dark beast that ever roamed the Veldt.


And it was not going unanswered.

Artist Colony by James Rowe

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